A good way to not address the fact that I am posting a really blushy and humiliating photo to be the bravest girl ever is to tell a funny story:
I showed Sir this picture yesterday and he was like, “mmm is that Pup’s hand?”
And I’m like, “no sillyhead it’s yours.”
So let’s establish that when I send my boyfriend a random picture of HIS OWN HAND and my butthole, he recognizes my butthole.
Mirrors + full length windows = blushy selfie success.
Askew.
“I remembered the fox. One runs the risk of crying a bit if one allows oneself to be tamed.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince.
One thing I’m learning from having to go through photos of myself every day is that my little, calloused feet are rather expressive.
Another one taken of the absolutely bizarre poses my sleeping body takes when left to its own devices in a very large, comfy bed.
He woke up a little bit before me and took this photo. Every time I look at it, my heart swells a little. I’m a sucker for intimacy.
(FYI: I have given him prior consent to photograph me while I’m asleep. Don’t photograph people without their knowledge or consent!!)
The waiting is always the worst of it.
Morning bed hair.
Literally every time Sir and I do impact play I’m like oh God you’ve done it you’ve bruised me beyond repair it hurts so much.
And then he shows me my butt and it’s just a smattering of little dots.
Which are then gone maybe fifteen minutes later.